


No Peace for the Determined Heart

by CorvusAquarius



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Grey Wardens, Multi, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Fade, Weisshaupt Fortress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4551378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvusAquarius/pseuds/CorvusAquarius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Corypheus's attacks and the Mage Templar War, Divine Victoria sits on the Sunburst Throne and Thedas is swept by a brief period of peace. However, things aren't always what they seem, and Marian Hawke finds herself teaming up with the Inquisitor, himself, in order to find out exactly what sort of trouble is brewing behind the walls of Weisshaupt and save the man she swore to always run with. Adventure often attracts all sorts, though, and she's not the only one seeking Maxwell Trevelyan's help with a reunion...</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Peace for the Determined Heart

She was not the same.

It wasn't without reason, then, that it took the Inquisitor the breadth of a moment to recognize the woman who'd been so freely allowed to trudge – muddy boots, well-worn scouting leathers, scowl and all – into his private quarters. In that small expanse of time, it was all he could do to take in her appearance from where he still sat, and had been sitting for the last several, uncountable hours, pouring over a mound of accumulated paperwork. Perhaps that was in part responsible for the pause he took, attempting to blink the bleariness out of his eyes as he peered around her to give a dismissive nod to the sole other occupant of the room – a harried looking officer who seemed very nearly on the cusp of shattering...

And with good reason, too. The quickness with which he would salute the Inquisitor and flee would have been the same for any in his position. For it was one thing to disturb their leader as he'd sought out the quiet refuge of his tower, but it was entirely another to tell her no.

With a resigned sigh, he would stand, pushing his chair back from the desk and straightening into a posture that would make any of his advisers proud. After all, she wasn't the only one who could change, and though the bulwark of youth was still firmly in his grasp, a few years of war and swinging a sword nearly as tall as he had taken their toll. The youngest son of Bann Trevelyan was no longer the fresh-faced, buoyant man who had once conferred with her atop the battlements of a newly found Skyhold.

“Champion,” would finally be greeted when the woman's scowl told him she would not be the one to make every move. Bold as the Legend of Kirkwall could be, there was an air of respect that had been delicately forged between the two and it would do neither any good to ignite it. “What brings you here on this lovely-” he found his gaze shifting to the large bank of windows that lined one wall and opened onto a breathtaking view of the Frostbacks, “-morning?” being concluded as he settled on the hazy light that danced through icy peaks as being that of dawn rather than dusk.

She gave a scoff.

Had there been any question in Maxwell's mind at that point as to whether the actual Champion stood before him and not just some cunning look-a-like, that eloquent sound would have erased all hint of doubt. Her hair was longer, yes, pulled back with apparent haste into a haphazard bun – stray dark strands framing her face and sticking to her neck. There were dark circles under her eyes, too, not to mention the puffiness indicative of recent tears – or the holding back of. Still, despite all the differences he could continue to pick out, beneath it all she still stood like she had all those years ago, clad in armor as if she had walked straight out of one of Varric's tales. Not to mention the eyes, which, behind their exhaustion, could belong to few people outside of Marian Hawke.

“Because I fancy you owe me by now, O Lord Inquisitor.” Yeah, there it was. He sighed again, inwardly this time, shaking his head. There was no doubt about it, as much as Maxwell would have loved to refrain from ever _owing_ a person like Hawke, he did.

And it was his own damned fault, too.

Or, at least, a younger, less experienced Inquisitor's fault. One who had not yet fully accepted Josephine's tutelage at keeping his mouth shut. Or the Commander's to-the-point advice. Or Leliana's – no, she wouldn't have helped either way. Leliana had always let him dig his own grave.

The fact of the matter was, however, that had it not been for Hawke, Trevelyan would have had a much worse time of getting to where he was now. So when the Champion's posture shifted, and she gave the sofa near the banister a longing look, he would nod before she gratefully strode over to it. Apparently this wasn't to be a short discussion.

Taking his own reflexive step toward the seating area, he would pause and think better of it – turning momentarily to grab the chair from behind his desk and drag it over to sit across from her. Maxwell had never been the sort to cringe at close quarters, and had he ever been, surely all the elbow-rubbing that went with the title of Inquisitor would have broken him of it by now. As it just so happened, though, paperwork had not been the only thing keeping him awake before Hawke's timely interruption. His life was never _that_ simple, of course. But now as she sat and his thoughts meandered toward the memory of the last time he had used the sofa, the chair seemed truly the best option available if he was to focus on their conversation and not the one he'd had several, long, tiring months ago...

“Am I keeping you from something?” she asked suddenly, and he shook the tender grasp of the memory away, exhaling to rid himself of it further.

“Not at all,” was soon replied as he watched her perch on the edge of a cushion, elbows on her knees and hands fisted together beneath her chin, “just... _multitasking_ ,” he finished, lamely, clearing his throat and waving any concern she may have held away. Settling into his own seat, the Inquisitor continued. “Now, what exactly can I do for you, Champion?”

Bristling slightly, “Just Hawke,” was said to some nondescript point roughly between the floor and the end table.

“Hawke,” he conceded.

She seemed to soften around the edges a bit at that. The small amount of relaxation she afforded allowing her to lean fully back in her seat before she continued. “Right, well-” she started awkwardly, looking momentarily toward the bottle of Antivan Red only an arm's length away, and then, apparently deciding better of it, continued. “I've wanted to ask this for a while now, actually. Ever since Varric told me about the whole-” she waved her left hand through the air, “-Fade key thing you've got going on there.” Maxwell glanced down to where his hands where knitted together in his own lap – the eerie green light emanating from his palm something that he would never grow accustomed to.

“See, that's the thing,” she laughed, the sound coming out sardonic if not outright cynical. “You get into this whole Mage, Templar issue and you're not expecting the Fade to be as big a part of it as it is, but, next thing you know-” Hawke made a sound to accompany the mock-explosive gesture of her unfurled arms. “There it is. All big, mean, green, and glowy.” She settled back into her own brand of composure, one ankle propped atop a knee as she slouched against the cream upholstery. “And regular people like you and me-” thinking better of it, “well not _you and me_ , other... regular people – we just don't spend a lot of our time jaunting around there. Taking in the sights.”

“Hawke, if you're just after an adventure-”

She cut him off, clearly reading the confusion on his face as to the direction this was going. “No. It's not like that.” He watched the rise and fall of the next breath she took. “It is personal, though. I won't lie to you and say it's for the good of Thedas, or some bronto-shit, when it's really just for the good of _me_.”

And... someone else, too, if the pain in her eyes was any indicator. Yes, whatever it was that she wanted – that she was trying to ask him for – might have, in her eyes, been for her, but it was obvious from where he was sitting that through that, someone she cared about would benefit as well. Maxwell was the same way, after all. It was actually sort of funny, sometimes, how much he and the Champion of Kirkwall had in common. Certainly had Ostwick been the Marcher city to spur Mages and Templars into all out rebellion, he liked to think he could have carried a mantel similar to her's fairly well. And Hawke had been everyone's first choice for Inquisitor.

However, when, “Alright, I'm listening,” was said, it had more to do with how different they were. For his choices to help those close to him had left him alone – unable to sit on his own couch for the memories and longings that might hurtle toward the surface – so, maybe, just maybe, his help could change that for her.

“ _That_ I'm sure of,” came with a light scoff, her eyes once more drifting to the nearby bottle. “Or is it just your Spymaster that listens in on everything? Debriefs you beforehand?”

Admittedly... “To a degree,” would be offered. “Though I do like to read the reports myself. Gives me perspective.” With a small wave of that fade-emanating hand, whatever signal the Champion had been waiting for to uncork the bottle was given – and received.

Once the first glass was poured and given a dismissive gesture when proffered his direction, Hawke would gingerly lift the crystal to her lips. “You've heard about Weisshaupt then,” wasn't a question when she spoke around the glass, throwing the wine back as if it were both punctuation and cheap Marcher ale.

“I'd heard that you were there,” was replied, one brow raised as red liquid flowed into the glass again and, then, lowered when she treated the wine with a bit more dignity this time – gently swirling it between her sips. “I heard most of the Wardens were there, too,” he went on. “The scouts I sent that way also tell me no one is being let in.” Trevelyan's tone then shifted to what some of his inner circle referred to as his _Noble-Brat_ voice. Maxwell thought it just made him sound more... Inquisitorial. “Or out.” He gave her a careful look. The Champion's thin brows climbing ever higher, lyrium-blue eyes wide and innocent as she gazed at him over the rim of the glass. “But, here you are, so I'm to wonder,” he leaned back, “are those reports just not correct? Or are they a little-” he thought for a moment before settling on the term most befitting, “ _-Hawked?_ ”

She snorted at that, managing to make the sound somehow graceful, and set her glass down on the table where she'd returned the bottle. “Would you believe me if I say neither?” The foot that had been resting atop her knee was pulled inward, the buckles of her boot now occupying her hands in place of more wine. “I did go there, though. After-” After what didn't need said. Part of him had wondered, however, as to why exactly she would want to drag herself to another Grey Warden fortress so soon following the events at Adamant. Maxwell had always assumed she had given herself some strange sense of duty to them – having escaped the Fade where others had not... “I- I needed to see for myself,” her eyes returned to their downward stare, and it seemed he would get his answer. “What Corypheus's Calling had done...”

When Hawke trailed off, he had no intention of making her continue. The woman looked as if she had seen something – something wrong or horrible or- Or it didn't really matter. Whatever it was, he was sure he had enough scouts stationed there that perhaps one of them would have a report. There was no need for her to revisit it, and he would say as much with a simple, “You don't have to.”

Another scoff. “I couldn't get in,” she said, pointedly. “Spent months just trying. But every door I could get open had a barrier!” She huffed, crossing her arms. “ _Mages._ ” If he could be entirely certain he hadn't just blinked, the Inquisitor would have sworn that one corner of her mouth had flicked up in a brief smile as she said the word. “When they want you out, they really keep you out.” A sentiment he could only agree with, dark eyes sweeping the unoccupied space of the sofa.

The thought would draw up a small, fleeting smile of his own, though. It was probably easy for the Warden Mages in Weisshaupt to seal the place. It was a fortress, after all. Tevinter, however... no one could seal off all of Tevinter...

Belatedly, once the train of thought had once again been dismissed, he became aware that she had started up again. “-just no one. Not even a window open to throw the trash out of.” She gave a small shiver. “Can't imagine the smell.”

With a light chuckle, “So what does this have to do with your favor? You want me to take all my mages into the Anderfels and run some soapy water through the place?” For all he knew of Marian Hawke and her joke-cracking, Trevelyan had at least expected a groan at his own poor attempt. Instead, it seemed he only managed to make her more withdrawn.

That couldn't last long, though – no way. She'd already seemingly dragged herself here – alone – across half of Thedas. For all the falsehoods that minstrels could spread, he knew for a fact that the courage of the Champion was not amongst them. Whatever part of this was the “personal” part was what was stopping her. She thought that it was something he wouldn't agree to. Maybe for his own reasons. Maybe for the Inquisitor's reasons. Someone somewhere was going to disapprove – he hadn't survived the endless trials of the Orlesian court to not be able to read that in her now.

Hawke steeled herself with the remainder of her glass of wine. “I need to get a message in. I have to know-” She halted herself, blue eyes piercing into his gaze. “You should want to know, too.”

“So, you need...?

“Your mages,” she said flatly. “Or your back door Fade key. The latter, preferably. I like the inconspicuous approach...”

With only the slightest sound escaping, the Inquisitor pushed himself up and out of his seat before slowly moving toward the end table where the bottle of Antivan Red sat. Pouring himself a glass and topping up the one still clasped him her hands, “Inconspicuous it is,” would be said before taking his own sip – grateful for the slight burn that followed the liquid down.

“It's for the best, really,” she sighed, shoulder's slumping as whatever unseen weight lifted moderately. “I have to know that he's okay.”

And then there would be another tell – one he wasn't sure if she completely intended or just simply couldn't be said out loud. _Or I have to know that he's not responsible._


End file.
